


The Aftermath

by ThePenDragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePenDragon/pseuds/ThePenDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different perspective on the life of John Watson after the end of the Reichenbach Falls. </p>
<p>Warning- This is not a necessarily 'happy' piece, so read knowing that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Aftermath

John stood in the flat. That same flat, 221B Baker Street. More than a year had passed since he'd taken even one step up, and now here he was. Looking out the windows of the empty room to the street below. He stared blankly, barely in the moment.

No, instead he was remembering.

That first time he'd heard the address, Sherlock at St. Bart's.

When they returned after the dinner, and then when the case was finished.

The nights he returned from the pub, or a long day at the office. 

Sometimes Sherlock would be there, sometimes not. 

When he would come back from Tescos and Sherlock was still talking, not noticing he'd gone.

When he woke up from a nightmare to Sherlock playing the violin in the early hours, lulling him slowly back to sleep.

He stood there, feeling his chest hurt as if it were that day again. Or the day of the funeral, when he had really lost all hope.

That was a lie, though. There was so much hope, from all kinds of people. Sure, there were the negative ones, but there were also those who truly believed in Sherlock.

He looked down to the street, hearing the familiar rush and rumble of the day traffic. He looked up to the overcast sky, though it didn't rain.

He'd heard so many things, so many times, that he hadn't given up completely. Sometimes he hoped that long arms would wrap around him, surprising him. Or the violin would play again, though it was long gone from the living space. Or that voice, deep and thoughtful, and so arrogant, making deductions again, going off on its own.

But there was nothing. Just the stifling silence of nothing inside the flat. So John squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked out. He handed the key back to Mrs. Hudson, forcing a smile and a kind goodbye, before stepping out to the street. He'd never return now, he knew. There was no reason for him to, nothing for him to go back for. Nothing but the painful and broken memories. The flat would be put out for lease tomorrow. To strangers, who may never know the great man who once lived there with his only friend.


End file.
